I see him there, king of my world, my dad,
Shoulders hunched over the ice cream freezer,
Once slate gray wood, faded now to dingy white
From countless invasions of ice chips and rock salt.
His arm pulls rhythmically round and round
Like the hand that rolls the seconds on the face
Of the schoolhouse clock. His tongue peeks out
Between his lips, and he wipes the top of
His left hand to catch pearled drops of sweat.
He looks up at barefoot, pigtailed me and
Warms me with his eye-crinkling smile.
"This is going to be scrumptious," he says.
"Wanna help me lick the dasher?"
I do not realize on this jewel of an August day
That my heart is making an indelible video.